


A New Routine

by HaMandCheezIts



Series: Christmas 1983 [2]
Category: Hardcastle and McCormick
Genre: 1983, Arguing, Bickering, California, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Churches & Cathedrals, Family, Friendship, Gen, Memories, Minor Injuries, Santa Monica, midnight mass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaMandCheezIts/pseuds/HaMandCheezIts
Summary: It's a few days after Mark was mildly injured while pursuing a teenager who had absconded with a Salvation Army kettle.  Hardcastle and McCormick bicker (gasp!) over how to spend Christmas Eve."I just have something I need to do for a few hours," Mark said. "C'mon, Judge, give me a break. It's been three days since I got hurt. I'm fine!""Right. You're fine." Hardcastle snorted. "Then why'd you beg out of helping with the housework and cooking today, to go to lie down? I know you said you had a headache. . . Been milking your injuries to get out of your chores, kid?"
Relationships: Milton "Hardcase" Hardcastle & Mark "Skid' McCormick
Series: Christmas 1983 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061132
Kudos: 1





	A New Routine

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my previous _Hardcastle and McCormick_ Christmas story, "Those Less Fortunate." It helps to understand this story if you have already read that one, but it's not entirely necessary. The time period of this story is Christmas of 1983 (the first season).
> 
> -ck
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Hardcastle and McCormick,_ nor do I own the beloved characters from this television show. 
> 
> I am writing for fun and feedback, **not** for profit.

Mark McCormick had thought he'd asked the question clearly and respectfully, and so had not anticipated Milton C. Hardcastle's answer.

"What, are you nuts?"

Hardcastle had seemed to want to add to the taunting inquiry, but a sharp "tsk" from Sarah Wicks, who was also sitting at the dining room table, convinced Milt to swallow any further insult along with the last bite of his meal.

Mark glanced at the woman before again addressing the judge. "What's the big deal, Judge? It's just Santa Monica. It's not like I'm going to Vegas or something."

"It's Christmas Eve. You don't need to be gallivanting around anywhere. I though you said you got your gift shopping done when Sarah took you out."

The day earlier, Sarah had indeed driven McCormick around town. It wasn't as if Mark had never accompanied Sarah on her errands, although typically he drove the judge's pick-up, ferrying the woman to the market or the post office or the dry cleaners. But as both Sarah and Hardcastle were adamantly against the ex-con driving so soon after his concussion, Sarah had driven her sedan and Mark had been the passenger. The whole trip had been slightly emasculating for McCormick. It was bad enough that he'd been chauffeured around by the older woman, but then she had also asked a bag boy to carry out the bags from the market, not wanting Mark to carry anything heavy with his injured arm. McCormick had been somewhat surprised by Sarah's concern for his well-being, and had also been surprised by how nice it felt . . . once he got over the humiliation. But the close eye that the older woman had kept on him had made it difficult for him to secretly purchase a small cameo brooch – almost identical to one his mother had owned – for the housekeeper. When Sarah had questioned his purchase from the jewelry store, Mark had said that he had gotten a bracelet for Barbara Johnson – and that he couldn't show the item to the older woman because the clerk had already gift-wrapped it for him. McCormick had found that, as opposed to with Hardcastle, he was relatively successful in slipping a white lie past Sarah. Although he wasn't sure if it was because she believed the occasional fibs, or because she understood they were usually harmless.

As the judge mentioned the shopping expedition, McCormick recalled the discomfort and grimaced unconsciously. Unfortunately, Sarah caught the expression before Mark could stop it. She had been collecting the dinner dishes from the table, and paused to look meaningfully at the young man. McCormick's grimace was soon replaced with a look of mingled guilt and embarrassment. "Yeah, uh, thanks for driving, Sarah," he said awkwardly. "That was . . . thoughtful."

Sarah gave a light scoff that was more a chuckle than a reprimand, then carried the stack of dishes into the kitchen. After the woman had left, Mark turned back to Hardcastle.

"I just have something I need to do for a few hours. C'mon, Judge, give me a break. It's been three days since I got hurt. I'm fine!"

"Right. You're fine." Hardcastle snorted. "Then why'd you beg out of helping with the housework and cooking today, to go to lie down? I know you _said_ you had a headache. . . Been milking your injuries to get out of your chores, kid?"

This presented a problem. McCormick shifted on his chair, and coughed in an effort to disguise a wince.

After getting clipped by the Mercedes on Wednesday, McCormick had spent the night in the main house so that Hardcastle could properly check on his concussed ward. Mark had been allowed to retire to the gatehouse on Thursday night, but he'd ended up sleeping on his couch, as his sprained knee had been so painful the stairs to the bedroom loft had been nearly unattainable. Now, on Saturday, his knee had loosened up some and the throbbing in his head had faded. . . But he felt far from one hundred percent. Only if he admitted that now, that would be the end of the discussion – Hardcase would never let him leave like he'd asked. And if he repeated that he felt fine, and had relatively recovered from his injuries, then the judge would reiterate that the ex-con must have been faking the headache earlier, and he wouldn't grant McCormick's request out of spite and anger.

McCormick's hesitation was not lost on Hardcastle. The older man sighed in exasperation, shaking his head tightly. "You're not up to par, kiddo. You can't even fight back without thinkin' about it." Mark's only reply was a silent scowl. Milt went on. "You're not driving anywhere tonight. It's a holiday, it's already dark out, and from your stunning conversation, I'd say your head is still a little fuzzy."

"My head is fine," Mark persisted. " _Really_ , Judge. The nap helped."

"Yeah? Did the nap help your leg? The way you've been limping around here hardly putting any weight on it, I don't know how you think you could drive your car."

McCormick shifted again, surreptitiously lowering his injured left leg from where he'd been resting it on the base of a nearby chair. At least, he tried to do it surreptitiously. Another derisive snort from Hardcastle told the younger man that his movement was completely witnessed and fully understood. The donkey was on to him.

Not quite ready to wave the white flag of surrender, Mark fired his last, desperate shot.

"I was kind of hoping I could take your truck."

This time there wasn't a snort; Hardcastle responded with a short, sharp laugh. "Now I know you're nuts. You think I'm going to let you drive my truck when you're still out to lunch?"

McCormick rose suddenly, gripping onto the edge of his chair to prevent placing undo strain on his injured leg. "I didn't know being a cop and a judge meant that you were an expert in medical diagnosis, Hardcase."

The judge glared up at the ex-con. "Maybe not, but your ER doc said you had to listen to me. And besides that, you're in my custody. You do what I say, and you don't do what I say not to. And I say you're not driving anywhere."

"Fine. Whatever." McCormick released the chair and headed for the kitchen, doing his best not to limp. "I'll call a cab."

"You – McCormick!" Hardcastle rose as well, but the younger man ignored him. Mark strode into the kitchen, said a soft "'scuse me," to Sarah, and then was out the back door.

Milt was right on Mark's heels, and would have re-opened the back door the moment it slammed shut, if not for the small, grey-haired woman who placed herself in front of him.

"Give him a minute, Your Honor. You both need to settle down. You know if you go right after him you'll just keep arguing and neither of you will give in."

The retired jurist stepped back and glowered at his housekeeper. "What, you expect _me_ to give in? I am not letting that kid drive yet. I don't care if it's been three days, and I don't care if it was only a mild concussion. He was lucky he didn't get hurt worse, and I'm not gonna press that luck!"

Sarah nodded deeply. "I completely agree."

"Of course you do!" Milt huffed. Then he gazed around the kitchen with a disappointed frown. "And there's our little routine – movie, cards, cookies. . . I just figured he'd join us, and the three of us would have a low-key Christmas Eve. I know it's kinda dopey, but I thought he'd like that."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Sure I did! He probably forgot, you know, 'cause of the knock on the head." After a beat, Milt added, "At least, I'm pretty sure I told him." Another beat, then the judge made a gesture that was half-nod, half-shrug."Maybe."

"Don't you think you ought to tell him now?"

Milt refused to meet Sarah's eyes. He grumbled something unintelligible. The woman smiled wryly, then stepped away from the door, allowing her long-time employer to pass. The judge was barely out the door when Sarah added: "And find out where it is that Mark wants to go tonight – if you think you can ask him without losing your temper!"

Hardcastle sent a pointed look back at Sarah, then forced himself to carefully shut the door behind him. And as he slowly trudged across the lawn to the gatehouse, he realized with chagrin that of the two men that needed to settle down, he was the one Sarah had probably meant.

ooOoo

Mark walked with quick and strong strides to the gatehouse, knowing that if he was not immediately followed, he was at least most likely watched. But as soon as Mark entered his little house and turned on the lights, he leaned hard against the door and breathed heavily, biting back the moans of pain. When the deep ache in his leg began to ebb, he limped over to the couch and sank into it wearily. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his anger and frustration morphing into a kind of resigned despair.

He was still sitting in the same position when, roughly five minutes later, there was a perfunctory knock on the door, followed by the judge's voice. "McCormick?" Without waiting for an answer, Hardcastle opened the door.

"Come in, Judge, why don't you," McCormick muttered grumpily.

"Oh, don't start." The judge seated himself in an easy chair near the couch. "Sarah instructed me to talk to you without yelling, so don't push it. I don't want her mad at me."

Mark grinned, amazed at how the woman could command such behavior from the crusty old judge. "Okay. Talk to me."

Milt looked down at the floor, rubbing a hand idly on his knee. "I just. . . I guess maybe I was a little peeved at you because you didn't want to hang around here with us. I know it's quiet and boring for you, maybe, but that's what I like about it. Christmas Eve, I mean." The judge looked up, but not at the ex-con; instead, his eyes focused on the far wall. "Oh, it wasn't always like this. When my wife was alive, we'd go out somewhere, or have a party here. She loved hosting holiday parties. They were always lively and active and fun, with all our friends and their kids, and our – well, with everyone. She'd decorate this place to the nines. It was really something to see." He smiled wistfully, then sobered. "Since she's been gone, most times it's just me and Sarah, unless one of us goes to see family. So the two us have kind of settled into a routine. We find a movie on TV, either _It's a Wonderful Life_ or _White Christmas_ or _A Christmas Carol._ Sarah puts together a tray of snacks and cookies and such, and we'll play cards or dominoes or whatever, and talk and laugh. And we just have a relaxing, quiet night. I guess it's kind of hokey and all, but I was hoping you might join us. I shoulda told you that. But instead I just got ticked that you wanted to leave, probably to hang out with your friends. And if that's what you want to do, I understand, kiddo. But I still don't want you to drive."

McCormick gaped; he couldn't help it. When he had told the judge to talk, he had in no way expected the calm, heartfelt words that he had just heard. And then the realization hit him; if Hardcase Hardcastle could do it, if he could let down the barriers and be candid with his thoughts and emotions on this holiday, then by God he could do it too.

"I don't want to go hang out with my friends, Judge. I want to go to Midnight Mass."

Milt was studying the ex-con now, his head titled slightly. "Church? I didn't think you went to church."

Mark huffed out a humorless laugh. "No, I haven't been. Not since I got out of prison. Well, except for Flip's funeral." He swallowed and blinked before he went on. "And even before I went to prison, I didn't go enough. I always found some reason, some excuse, about why it wasn't important. And that was wrong." _Not to mention a sin._ Mark's hand went to his neck, to pull a medallion on a chain out from under his shirt. He rubbed the St. Jude medal ruminatively as he continued. "My mom and I would go to Midnight Mass. She usually worked Christmas Eve but she'd be home in time, and man, I loved doing that. Staying up late to go to church. It just felt so special and magical, so . . . holy. Being in the church in the middle of the night, and seeing the Christmas tree and the lights, and the Advent wreath would have all the candles lit, and the readings would always be about the birth of Christ. And the singing. . . We always sang 'Joy to the World' for the closing hymn, and my mom would cry. Not like she was sad, or anything . . . " McCormick sighed softly, shaking his head. "I don't know."

Hardcastle nodded soberly. "I think I get it."

Mark smiled back gratefully before going on. "The case with Joe Cadillac and his son, Father Atia. . . Ever since then, I've been feeling like I need to go back to church. And I really wanted to go to Midnight Mass tonight."

The two men sat in silence for several moments, each considering what the other had shared. Milt was the first to make a decision, and a move. He stood, looked down at his watch, and then at the ex-con who was only supposed to a business associate and nothing more.

"So when do we leave? I figure the church has gotta fill up fast, and we'll need three seats together."

McCormick stared up. "What? Three?"

"You think we're gonna leave Sarah here alone on Christmas Eve? She'd take our presents back. So yeah, three." Milt's face suddenly became worried. "Unless you don't really want us there. If this is a private thing with you, just say so."

"Are you kidding? Judge, I'd be thrilled if you guys came!" Mark's face lit up. When he'd been describing the scene of the Midnight Masses of his youth, he'd realized that he not only dearly missed the experience, but that he'd also missed sharing it with someone. "And yeah, the earlier the better. I can use the extra time to run you guys through the paces, let you know when we stand and kneel and shake hands and all that." He thought his grin probably looked pretty cheesy, but he didn't care. "You really think Sarah will want to go?" Then McCormick's grin faltered. "But what about your routine, with the movies and snacks and everything?"

Hardcastle shrugged, and his craggy face now held a sincere smile.

"Maybe it's time for a new routine."

**_END_ **


End file.
